You are my Sunshine
by Spiritus Scriptor
Summary: Crowley is on the run from all of Hell itself in retribution for Ligur. On a dark and stormy night, he stumbles frantically into Aziraphale's shop, begging for help. But one angel, no matter how valiant his efforts, may not be enough to keep the demons at bay.


**I feel I should preface this story with an apology. It came from a very, very dark place in my mind and some people may find it disturbing. I don't usually like to disclose too many personal details online, but life has dealt me quite a few blows recently, and writing is my therapy.**

 **This was primarily inspired by Carly Simon's rendition of "You Are My Sunshine" and secondly by Amanda Palmer's of "I Will Follow You Into The Dark". Neither are particularly happy.**

 **Even though this may very well be the darkest thing I've written to date, I hope you can appreciate it for what it is.**

* * *

It was a dark and stormy night when the little bell over the shop door clanged louder than it ever had before, and then fell off its bracket. A panicked figure burst into the shop, dripping wet and not even bothering to hide the massive feathery wings which spanned almost the width of the room.

A startled angel rose from the overstuffed armchair towards the back of the shop where he had been curled up with a book, and rushed out into the front room, uncertain of who—or what—had just burst into his shop.

He calmed down and let out a sigh of relief as soon as he saw who it was.

"Crowley," he breathed.

The demon, on the other hand, was as far from being calm as anyone could possibly get. He was frantic, gritting his teeth and shivering, and it wasn't from the cold. Aziraphale couldn't see his eyes through the dark glasses, but he was sure they were darting here and there, looking for the invisible source of his torment.

The demon all but lunged forward and seized the angel by the shoulders, his speech coming in short gasps.

"Aziraphale…flew here…you have to help…coming for me…payback for…Ligur…never would have come here, but…raided my flat…my car…"

Aziraphale made a shushing noise and tilted Crowley's chin so that he was looking him more or less in the eye. "Who's coming for you, dear boy?" he asked calmly.

Crowley raised a trembling hand and removed his sunglasses. Unblinking, frightened serpentine eyes bored into the angel's clear blue ones as he whispered, " _Them_."

"Them who?"

Instead of a direct answer, Crowley recounted his misdeeds involving holy water, how he'd permanently killed one of his own kind, and how that news had reached the Morningstar himself. It had taken time, sure, but it had caught up with him in the end. All of Hell itself was on his tail. He didn't know who would do the actual collecting, but what he did know was that once he had been taken, he was never going to see Aziraphale, never going to see Earth, ever again.

When he had finished speaking, Crowley gave a massive involuntary shudder, the force of which sent the rainwater soaking his wings in every direction, much like a wet dog shaking out its coat. Some of Aziraphale's most prized books were in the line of fire, but were easily miracled dry.

"Oh, dear…" fretted the angel, drawing and arm around Crowley's shivering form. "Come on. Let's get you upstairs. There's a fireplace up there, we'll get you warm and dry…"

Crowley made no attempt to fight or save face as he let Aziraphale lead him up the rickety stairs to the upper floor of the shop. In all the years he had been hanging around, he had never been up there and had no idea that the angel had had a flat up there. It was about as dusty as the shop, but on the whole it was much more cozy and inviting. In an instant there was a fire blazing in the small sitting room, and Aziraphale had pulled every cushion from the couch and chairs and piled them on the floor, and wrapped Crowley up in a hideous tartan blanket (not that he minded). After a moment more of bustling around, he returned with mugs of cocoa for both of them and sat down next to his old friend, who had stopped shivering but was still as tense as a tightly-wound spring.

"Don't worry," he said. "I have… _precautions_ …set up downstairs. They shouldn't be able to affect you from here, but if any infernal forces come through that door, they'll be sorry."

"What about the windows?" asked Crowley shakily.

"Protected. Do you really think I've spent all these years here without some sort of security?" asked the angel. "And I know you won't be too happy with me for saying this, but...my side is stronger than yours. Always has been."

"Doesn't matter what you do, they've always got another trick up their sleeve. Could come down the chimney like Santa Claus, for all I know."

"Crowley, please." Aziraphale pleaded. "I know it's not in your nature, but trust me. Just this once."

The demon sighed and shuddered again before drawing his knees up to his chin and staring morosely into the flames. "Mmkay. I'll try."

In reply, the angel shifted his weight and wrapped an arm gently around Crowley's shoulders in a gentle embrace. "You know I would never deliberately hurt you."

"That's a laugh."

Aziraphale realized then what he'd just said. "Well, not anymore! You're just going to have to believe me…oh _God_ , Crowley, just please stop shaking…"

Crowley seized up almost instantly and continued staring at the fire. "What am I going to do?"

"You're going to stay here for as long as you need to," Aziraphale's voice took on a tone of surety that he didn't really feel as he added, "And I know you were joking about being granted asylum, but…well, if it comes to that, I'll see what I can do."

When Crowley spoke next, it was barely more than a whisper.

"Thanks."

* * *

Next to the Apocalypse, this was the most tense Aziraphale had ever been. And even when the world was ending, even when he didn't have a _body_ , he had still been able to move, to do something.

There was nothing to do now but wait. The silence was deafening. Every drop of rain, every creak of the old building seemed to be magnified a hundredfold.

He had finally gotten Crowley to calm down a bit, and the demon now rested leaning against him. Aziraphale thought he might be dozing, but he had never known Crowley to sleep with his eyes open.

"Angel?" asked the demon quietly, startling the angel from his musings.

"Hm?"

"I know we've had some near misses before, but I know I'm not going to make it out this time. I'm just," his voice grew brittle and he cleared his throat before continuing. "I'm just so _happy_ I get to spend my last few hours with you. You have no idea, but—I mean—you're my best friend, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale rubbed his shoulder. "Hush, now. They're never going to be able to touch you. Not while you're here."

Crowley had never felt more trapped in all his existence. Even when the world was ending and all the demons of Hell were after him, he'd been able to escape, to do _something_. He couldn't spend the rest of time holed up in a dusty flat above a bookshop. He'd go mad.

The angel ghosted a hand lightly over Crowley's hair and began humming absentmindedly. He felt him nestle deeper into his shoulder. After six thousand years of bloody stubborn, stoic determination in the face of the infernal, they'd finally broken him. The Crowley he knew would never in a million years have resigned himself to…to…to whatever _this_ was. Must have been a hell (pardon his French) of a threat. Still, he thought, this was… _nice_.

But Crowley was right. It wouldn't last. Heaven was more powerful than Hell, but Aziraphale was only a Principality. If a high-ranking demon came to fetch Crowley (and he was sure that it would be, after all the demon's previous antics and near-misses), his defenses wouldn't hold. They would equate to that demon what a mosquito bite would to a human—a minor irritation, that was all.

He could do some serious damage with holy water, but he didn't dare expose Crowley to it. The demon had explained that even prolonged exposure without contact could take its toll.

He gazed down at the exhausted demon by his side.

Holy water could take its toll, yes. But it wouldn't kill him. He would recover.

 _Fuck it,_ thought Aziraphale. _What have I got to lose?_

He shifted Crowley aside and stood up, garnering a tired moan of protest.

"Stay there, Crowley. I'll be right back."

Aziraphale made his way back downstairs to the little kitchenette and procured a bucket from under the sink. Upon consideration, he miracled up several more and filled them all with water. He couldn't believe he was taking a page from Crowley's book, but if one bucket of holy water on the doorframe had bought him some time, what would a collection of strategically-placed buckets do?

He laid the trap as quickly and quietly as possible, and scampered back upstairs.

Crowley had collapsed sideways onto the pile of cushions. The blanket around him rose and fell with his quiet, shallow breaths. Instead of righting him again, Aziraphale lifted his head only slightly and brought it back down to rest on his lap as he stroked the demon's thick, dark hair. The fingers of Crowley's outstretched hand twitched slightly. He wasn't asleep or tired at all, Aziraphale realized. He was in shock.

"Shh, Crowley. It's me. I've set a trap for them."

"Mmhm," was the only reply.

Aziraphale began humming again, tunelessly at first, and then the notes began to form a pattern. He only realized what he was humming when Crowley gave a halfhearted snort of contempt.

Undeterred, the angel began to sing in a low, gentle voice.

 _You are my sunshine, my only sunshine_

 _You make me happy when skies are gray_

 _You'll never know, dear, how much I…_

He couldn't bring himself to say it, even though he knew it was only part of the song. But he loved Crowley, truly. His best friend, his brother-in-arms, his only true confidante…his adversary. He loved him with all his heart, to the very core of his being, and he knew that Crowley returned the feeling.

* * *

It was nearing dawn when he felt it. He had let his guard down and had slumped down over Crowley during the night. And virtue was meant to be ever-vigilant. He would willingly have died a thousand deaths for letting Crowley down. It seemed to Aziraphale almost a betrayal—Crowley, a demon, paranoid by nature, had broken down and put what little trust he did possess in the hands of his enemy with whom he had grown unusually, unnaturally close—and Aziraphale, an angel whose duty it was to guard and guide, had failed to protect him.

It came so suddenly, the terrible, ominous feeling that something was very, very wrong and would never be made right again, no matter how hard Aziraphale tried to rectify his mistakes. This was It, with a capital I and underlined in triplicate.

There was no sound, no commotion from the thoroughly booby-trapped shop below. No footsteps, not even a whisper. Just an ominous feeling that grew until Aziraphale felt that the very essence of his angelic being was being eaten away.

The angel, more alert than he had ever been, looked up to see something like a wavering, shadowy orb appear before his eyes in the dying light of the fire. The normally slow, gentle sound of the rain dripping from the eaves to the windowsill became a constant, thrumming sound of warning. The shadow, which Aziraphale could not tell for certain had even been there mere seconds ago, expanded and moved forward to hover over Crowley.

The demon had at long last fallen into a restless sleep, but as soon as the orb began to hover above is chest, bobbing in the air as though it were alive and breathing, his eyes snapped open and a look of sheer terror descended upon his features and stayed there. An invisible force struck Aziraphale in the chest and sent him shooting backwards into the far wall, pinning him there. All he could do now was watch in stunned silence as Crowley rose off the floor a few inches, unmoving, as if in suspended animation. It was like seeing a horrible movie cliché play out in real life.

The shadowy orb wavered and expanded ever more as a delicate, misty substance rose from his chest. It was mostly grayish-black, but then there came a speck of shimmering, silvery light, more beautiful than any gem on earth or any star in the cosmos. Aziraphale gasped as he recognized what it was. Within Crowley's soul was one last shred of pure, untarnished grace.

The angel watched in horror as the demon's soul was pulverized, exploding soundlessly into a fine dust that scattered across the floor before disappearing entirely.

And then Crowley began to scream. He screamed and writhed in insurmountable, blinding pain. He began writhing and convulsing, as though in the throes of a seizure. His screams reached a fever pitch and then, as suddenly as they had started, they stopped. The demon fell silent as his lifeless body dropped to the floor with a dull thud.

But it wasn't over. The shell that was Crowley burst into flames, his face still contorted in agony, hair and clothes singeing, flesh peeling and melting away as though it were only wax.

Whatever force had held Aziraphale back let go suddenly, and the angel pitched forward and retched. The smell was unbearable, the sight even worse.

When it was over, all that was left of Crowley was the charred outline of his body burned into the floor. After the smoke had cleared, Aziraphale staggered over and dropped to his knees, shaking with distraught, hopeless sobs. Crowley was gone. No matter what he did or where he went—he could Fall into the deepest circle of Hell and spend all of eternity searching—Aziraphale would never, ever find him. He had been destroyed. Obliterated. Wiped from existence.

He brought his fists down hard on the floor, bowing until his forehead touched the edges of the burnt spot, the smell of smoke and burnt flesh filling his nostrils.

Something brushed lightly against his fingers. He sniffled and looked up.

A feather.

A single feather remained, singed to gray. He picked it up and it crumbled to ash.

The angel screamed, on and on, until he fell unconscious to the floor.

* * *

When he awoke, the peach-colored light of early morning was shining through the thin curtains. Aziraphale sat up and gathered what remained of his dearest friend, now reduced to a paltry handful of ash. Later, he would put it in a small silver urn and place it on the mantel, to mark the spot where Crowley had died.

Now, however, with a handful of the demon's ashes, he looked out at the sunrise and finished the song he had sung to Crowley in his final hour.

 _You'll never know, dear, how much I love you_

… _please don't take my sunshine away._

* * *

 **So that's...that. Again, I'm sorry if I've traumatized you. I'll be okay, just wanted to vent in story form. Unfortunately my main fodder for stories is my favorite book (I should really start writing something original one of these days), an optimistic little tale with a happy ending and I have the tendency to make it...not.**

 **Reviews, as always, are appreciated. They make me happy.**


End file.
